


a decade under the influence

by skateside



Category: My Chemical Romance, Saosin, Taking Back Sunday, The Used
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Eating Disorder, Happy Ending, Implied Drug Abuse, Implied Violence, Multi, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 12:42:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14112591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skateside/pseuds/skateside
Summary: The agony before, it was going to kill Bert. But he'd be damned if he had let it.





	a decade under the influence

**Author's Note:**

> written february 2018. trigger warnings are in the tags.

 

Gerard Way was a mess of spilled paint, bleeding fingertips, and bruised knuckles. His black hair was always knotted and his eyes were glassy and always stained red, and the destruction in his mind always poured out onto the canvas as an almost unintelligible mess.  
Red and black splatters over an almost neon background, bright colors and joy being tarnished by the spill of ache and agony. Gerard painted how he felt. And his art reflected him well.

 

Bert was, amazingly, the opposite. Whereas Gerard focused his emotion quietly onto a canvas, Bert was loud and vocal about his agony. He was a flurry of multicolored hair, bright eyes, busted up knees, and broken bones. Writing so hard the tip of his pen would snap off, he was unforgiving and unashamed of sharing how he felt. It didn't end with ink on a page, because Bert brought his energy to the stage. His anger, his sorrow, his confusion. Not a lot of people could watch him perform without really, _really_ watching. If you came to see them as an opening act, you left imprinted. Bert's emotions were contagious, and that wasn't always good, but he did what he did, and he did it well. However, agonized wailing to the point of vomiting on somebody's shoes isn't everybody's cup of tea.

 

Bert couldn't see a single fucked up canvas and not picture Gerard. Sitting across from him in Bert's bedroom, worn out pajama bottoms and an oversized Danzig shirt, making while hand gestures and talking about the universe around a cigarette between his lips. The same lips Bert was dying to kiss in that moment.  
Similarly, Gerard thought of Bert when he thought of agony, when he thought of love. Standing on stage, like he was the most invincible person in the world but simultaneously the most vulnerable, smallest person in existence. Spitting, puking, flailing, falling to the ground in a fit of screams, and amazingly, Gerard wasn't afraid of him. Because Bert was finally letting go, no matter how fucking gross it was to watch sometimes, and he was healing. Gerard was proud of him.

 

Getting clean was not an easy thing for Gerard. For Bert, it wasn't even something considered.

He spent his time shut away in the van, sleeping off the withdrawals and the headaches, painting through the cravings and urges, listening to people talk distracting his screaming subconscious.

Bert didn't know what was going to happen. But he watched, and he waited.

He watched as Gerard painted an entire canvas black one day, his miraculously clean hair a curtain to his eyes. The black and red strands served as a shield, from Bert's gaze, from the evening sunlight, from everything. Gerard wasn't there, Gerard was in the canvas.

He stayed sober for a day. He wanted to see Gerard and not be a burden.

He ignored the headache and crawling skin, and brought Gerard flowers to celebrate being clean for a week. Gerard kissed him for the first time since he stopped using. And they slept in his bunk that night.

 

Gerard still resembled his old self. Bloody, bruised hands, messy hair, and paint-stained clothes. He smelled like coffee instead of reeking of alcohol. He showered everyday once he got home. His mom cried tears of joy and pride when he told her he hadn't drank in a month.

Bert wanted to be proud of him. But something in his gut would twist, a bad feeling, and he tried to push it away as he watched Gerard's family and friends praise him; all while Bert was still fighting, still sick, still in pain.

 

 

He woke up one morning and realized he was jealous.

It hit him as soon as he opened his eyes, and so did another headache. And a wave of terror. His bunk, the tour bus, the entire fucking world never felt smaller.

His friends laughed away in the front lounge. It must have been well past 2pm, and they had a show to play. He was pissed off they didn't wake him up, hurt they forgot, and something else weaseled its way to the surface, screaming and demanding his attention.

Loneliness.

 

He was not healing anymore. In more ways than one, his scars were being reopened. His walls were turning to dust.

 

He suffered through the show completely sober, telling himself to depend on the emotion and energy to get through, instead of alcohol or drugs. More than once he almost fell to his knees, whether overcome by emotion or plagued by physical weakness, he couldn't tell the difference. These days, they were starting to resemble the same pain.

Playing sober was agonizing. Being sober with nothing to do was another story.

Quinn suggested some video game Bert didn't care enough about once they all got back into the bus. Bert suggested Quinn, figuratively, sucked a dick instead. Jepha laughed, and the sounds of it mixed with Quinn and Branden starting a separate conversation, too loud, the bus starting, too loud, persistent fans still screaming, _too loud,_ the sound of his own mind, _TOO LOUD,_ and-

"Shut the fuck up!"

He hollered louder than anything, and cowered into the bunk hall like a wounded animal, covering his ears.

His friends stood, mortified and worried, still and silent. They shared nervous looks.

 

 

Quinn threw the last liquor bottles into the dumpster behind the venue the following day. He grinned smugly when he heard the glass shattering.

 

 

Bert called Gerard after that show. He didn't pick up. So Bert sent a text.

_How did you make it through_

He fell asleep waiting for a response that never came through.

 

 

At times, Bert still wished he could go to his parents. It tortured him to think about calling his mom, crying, begging for her help like he would after getting into a fight at fifteen. Or to think about asking his dad what to do. But he knew better than to give in, to cave, and go back to them.

He was weak. He was always weak, and his friends knew it better than anyone. Gerard Way knew it. He knew it when he read Bert's message and never responded to him.

 

Jepha Howard was neurotic, fidgety, a whirlwind of task after task. But he was comfort, warmth, and familiarity to Bert. Bert needed Jepha around, no matter how many times they'd end up brawling on the floor, cracked knuckles and scratches and bloody noses and bruises blossoming over their faces. Bert hated Jepha with every fiber of his being, sometimes. Hated how he turned his back on people like Gerard did to Bert. Hated how he made Bert feel bad for not being a vegan. Hated how he preached to Bert about cleaning up when he was still using every now and then. Hated how he made Bert feel better, how he healed him, when all Bert knew was misery. But he loved Jepha, and he always would, because one could not hate him, even if he never shut up about sex and kale.

 

Regularly, he would visit Bert's bunk. Ask him if he needed a water bottle, coax him out to eat, snatch his phone and laptop so he would sleep. And Bert appreciated it immensely, because, no matter what connection he had with Quinn or Branden, Jepha _knew_ Bert. You'd think they grew up together.

Jepha knew Bert because he used to be like him. Drinking, using, hurting, fucking, doing anything to get rid of the agony following him around like a dark cloud. Nobody helped Jepha but himself. And he wasn't going to watch his friends go through it, because no matter how many times Bert threatened to break a specific bone in Jepha's body if he didn't leave him alone, agony was going to kill Bert. He watched it manifest for years until none of them could watch anymore.

Bert was letting the agony kill him. Slowly, in different ways, like tearing Gerard from him, hurting his friends, laughing in his face as he suffered in silence.

Agony took many forms for Bert. It took them a long time to notice, because they thought being sick was just a part of sobering up; they didn't know. They had never drank and used like Bert did, not even Jepha. Bert was weak. Weaker than all of them.

 

It started with the promiscuity. Nobody batted an eye at first, because it was Bert, and he was getting over Gerard. It wasn't going to hurt.

The first example was Adam Lazzara.

Adam was a kindhearted, forgiving, sweet person. He had an attention problem and a thing for fire, and was particularly interested in scaling the Warped Tour stage every year. Everyone figured Adam was a promising rebound partner for Bert, their personalities having such similar aspects.

He was comfort. But not like Jepha. He was a temporary safety blanket, willing every time Bert beckoned for him. Adam Lazzara was easy. He was vulnerable and lonely underneath the surface. But he hid it well, surrounding himself with good people and occupying himself with silly activities. He told funny jokes and he made people happy, because the best he could do was make others smile while he didn't even know himself well enough to know what made him truly happy like they all did.

 

Bert lost interest. Quickly. Adam did not, listening to Bert make up a bullshit excuse about self discovery and needing to be by himself. He was heartbroken, but he thought he understood what Bert was going through.

Jepha was next. And then Quinn. Next, a summer fling over the course of a festival; a hot blonde guitar player with strong hands and an intense personality. And the player's ex boyfriend, a neurotic brunette with a drug problem and shaky hands. (Bert relapsed after the brunette. And Branden, of all people, finally saw the red flags.) Another slew of faces he'd never hope to see again, a new example every week, some lasting a while, some fading out quickly.

 

Branden Steineckert was relentless, cold and unforgiving, lecturing Bert at every road stop in his life. Branden was confusing. He was kind and giving and soft on the surface, but if you crossed him or hurt his friends, you'd be sorry. You'd be so fucking sorry. Bert imagined Branden's personality like a drop of matte black paint in a cup of bright, glossy, neon colors. Like a canvas painted by Gerard Way. At the same time, he really wasn't that confusing the longer you knew him. Bert figured out what set him off, figured out what cracked his armor, and figured out what broke him down and knocked him out. Branden was like faded pages in a book, tired eyes, and extreme persistence. Soft words, a helping hand. A stern look and cold words when you need it. Above all, he was tired.

 

Branden was strong in Bert's eyes. Ruthless. He wanted to be just like Branden; tough, unafraid, capable. No trace of evil, only good.  
Bert had never seen him cry, not until he bailed his friend out of jail for being caught with drugs.

He broke Branden. He stayed silent as Branden snatched his wrist and almost literally dragged him back to the tour bus. They didn't say a single word. The tears that spilled against Branden's will said enough.

He didn't lecture Bert that night, or ever again.

 

Quinn Allman was fury and beauty and carefulness all wrapped up into one conflicting persona. He was bloody knuckles and dark eyes. A soft voice and a shoulder to cry on. Above all, he was Bert's best friend through many a shameful nights. He grew up with Bert, helped him as he cried, as he bled, as he almost gave up. But Quinn was mysterious. He had a bad habit of being void of emotion when too much was happening all at once nowadays. He had many bad habits. Biting his nails until his fingers bled, cussing like a sailor in front of teenagers, listening to his music too loud, punching walls when he was mad. And making Bert shut down.

 

"You're fucking despicable," He spat, not much taller than Bert but looming over him now. "Think about all those people you fucked around and manipulated, and then you broke their hearts."

"I-" Bert tried, but Quinn shoved him by the shoulders.

"You never think about anyone but yourself, do you? Do you even fucking know what empathy is?"

_I_ did _pass fifth grade, asshole,_ Bert thought, but he did not say.

He only watched as Quinn's mouth moved, forming more angry words, hearing but not listening. Hearing Quinn break down and cry, begging him to stop before he ended up dead. Pleading. He was desperate. They all were.

But he didn't listen.

 

 

The next problem was eating.

Jepha coaxed him out of his bunk one morning. Made him toast. He discarded it in the trash when Jepha turned his back.

He drank water instead. Until his stomach was twisting, screaming at him, and black spots littered his vision. It was late, then, hours and hours since he wasted breakfast. Defeated, he stumbled into the front lounge and dug around in the cabinets until he found a random container of something. He didn't know what it was, it looked like some of Jepha's freaky vegan health nut food, but ate it anyways. Because he was convinced he was going to fall out in the floor and die if he wasted more time searching.

Sure enough, Jepha vaguely accused someone of eating his stuff the next morning.

Bert's head was pounding too hard and his stomach was causing him agony, he couldn't even make a witty remark on Jepha's veganism.

Branden said he'd rather die than lay a hand on Jepha's food, and Quinn simply denied it. He looked at Bert, whose head was in Quinn's lap and eyes were screwed shut, trying not to cry out every time it felt like someone was driving a knife into his gut.

"Bert, did you-"

"I'd rather starve," He said, bitterly humorous, but Jepha didn't think twice.

 

At midnight, Bert gave in again, telling himself being hungry and dying were two totally different things.

Quinn caught him making toast.

"It's so fucking late. Why are you eating?"

The question choked him up and made him angry all at once.

_Irritability is a side effect of having an eating disorder._

_I'm eating now because I've been suffering all day and I can barely see straight ahead._

"Why are you awake? Take your piss and go back to bed, grandpa," Bert said, not even flinching as the toaster came up. His fucking bread was burned. He was about to break down and cry in front of Quinn over two slices of bread.

He threw it in the trash and shoved past Quinn, back to his bunk, empty handed and light headed.

 

 

Gerard Way texted him the next morning.

_I suffered. Not every happy ending starts out with a happy story._

Bert ate breakfast that day. And started writing a long, handwritten apology letter with Adam Lazzara's name on it.

 

 

Almost all at once, it stopped. Drinking and using didn't even pass his mind after weeks of keeping his hands to himself and making sure he was eating enough. Recovery didn't last days, weeks, or even months. Recovery lasted throughout watching his friends pass in and out of his life, throughout watching Gerard Way get married, Quinn Allman get married, then Jepha Howard, then Dan Whitesides. And then getting married himself, throughout raising a child, throughout laughing as he started spotting gray hairs.

Recovery ended as his friends lined up at the edge of the stage one night and bowed. Ended as he held hands on the way back to the bus with the 'hot guitarist' he met all those summers ago, instead of with Quinn. Ended as he laughed alongside Adam Lazzara, as he shared long phone calls with Gerard Way, as he watched the intimidating brunette, Anthony, perform with his own band entirely sober.

 

 

Dan Whitesides was happiness and a carefree attitude personified. Of course, he settled down a bit when he got married. Started getting that Dad Look. Didn't jump around and break shit anymore, said he wanted to be a good example. He still ended up with snapped sticks, broken fingers, and bloody knuckles after shows. Dan was safety, trust, and kindness. Bert knew he missed being young; being wide eyes, crude humor, sprained ankles and high behind the venue. But he was happy now, and he wouldn't change a thing.

 

Justin Shekoski was far more intelligent than anyone Bert had ever met. His personality clicked with Bert's instantly, but of course, the moment of recognition was visible in their eyes, it was simultaneous, and suddenly it was funny. Bert laughed with Justin like he never did with anyone else, because no matter what was going on in Justin's head, he always had the charm that Bert is convinced made him fall in the first place that summer. Justin was starry skies, curiosity, bright, hopeful eyes, and a genuine love for being alive. Bert looked at the world in a different way after Justin entered his life this time around. Justin's friendship was another step closer to enjoying life and all of the wonders it held. He had changed, he wasn't strong hands and fist fights and blind lust anymore. His hands, though skilled and calloused, had a much softer touch. Justin had no spite left in him after the life he had lived.

 

 

 

Bert still thinks about it.

Thinks about it every time his knuckles brush someone's skin when he's pissed off. Every time he sees a messy canvas and gets that heavy feeling in his chest. Thinks about it every time his daughter smiles at him. Every time his gut twists after a busy day before dinner.

All of it comes rushing back to him in waves, and sometimes it almost suffocates him. But he has an anchor now, and a brand new enthusiasm for this thing called life. He would continue to struggle, and that would send him on completely different roads to recovery.

Even though he struggled to forgive others, he finally found the strength to forgive himself. And it wasn't easy. But sometimes, he knew it was necessary, and he knew he had it in him. Certain things helped; watching his wife laugh, his daughter sing, his friends perform, his supporters and fans smile.

The agony before, it was going to kill Bert. But he'd be damned if he had let it.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are much appreciated!


End file.
